Happy Birthday Mr Masood
by indiefran
Summary: Birthday boy. Reviews as ever, are lovely.
1. Chapter 1

I watch him as he drifts through the quietness of morning sleep, finding myself taken with a consuming gratitude that he is here, that he is anywhere. This is the sleep I could watch, the sleep that does nothing but calm. He's half smiling, that little secret smile that twitches the right corner of reddened lips when his breaths reach the point of peaceful depth. I wonder what after the week that has past could take his dreams to let him smile, and whether it is possible to love him anymore because of it.

He sighs quietly, a satisfied sloth like sigh as he squashes himself further into the warmth, his cheeks flushing against the burgundy of the sheets. 'We could be here all day' I laugh, and as pleasurable as that thought is, this day shouldn't be slept away.

"Time to wake up", I whisper low, his lip widening at the familiar feel of my breath on his ear.

I laugh at the ease in which my request goes ignored, as a sleeping mumble is released in pleasure.

"Hey mister", I try, pressing my mouth slowly onto the flash of peaking warm chest, "Don't you know what day it is?"

"Happy birthday to you," I murmur in song against his skin, "Happy birthday to you."

"Happy birthday dear…" the words halt with the punctuation of gentle kisses and lathes, "…disgustingly young and gorgeous one…"

"Happy birthday…" I nuzzle into the groove of his heated throat…" to you."

"Are they your own lyrics?"

I grin as I feel the words sleepily mumbled, moving my lips to see the stretch of his own.

"Hey you, when did you wake up?"

"About the part when you started licking an inch from my nipple…" he smiles, wriggling to budge himself slightly from beneath the quilt. "I was hoping there was a second verse."

"Oh were you now…" I tease, sliding over slowly as I lean down onto him. "_So demanding_."

"Well it is my birthday."

"Yes it is, you are the birthday boy. And this birthday boy can have whatever he wants."

He lifts his arm to rest on the back of my neck, keeping our gaze joined as he pulls me close.

"Anything?"

"Anything," I whisper into the soft stubble of his jaw.

He moans gently, that undetectable deafening moan that hums from him helplessly, willingly when his skin feels my tongue. I'm grabbed, his loving hold on my head tightened, fingers scrunching playfully through tufts of hair whose single role is to have me led to his lips, those that open, that are now widening with mine, tasting, nipping, caressing.

Instinctively I press into him, slide a hand beneath the sheet to give him more, lifting and moving, him struggling with me to exchange the flat of the mattress for the squeeze of my touch.

"Ow", he mutters, and I freeze, forcing myself back.

"Shit, did I just…?"

"No, no it wasn't you. Just a bit sore you know, and I can't put pressure on my…"

I must badly hide the worry etched on my face as he quickly adds;

"It's fine. I'm fine," placing a hand to my cheek and stroking me back to calm.

"You're more than fine," I tell us both. "You're the birthday boy…and I think…" I smile, with a chaste kiss, "…it's officially present time!"

* * *

><p>"Christian it's enormous!"<p>

"Words I always like to hear…"

"And you've got two!"

"That's a new one…"

I kick the spare room door nimbly, and grin at him, sitting up in bed with his best child-like expectancy and bed hair gently scrunched down his face.

"It's not enormous anyway," I say, hopping cautiously into bed, "one's tiny and the other one's shoe box size… Fuck."

"It's okay I didn't hear that," he smiles sweetly as I shake my head.

"And they say you've got to be married and fat before selective deafness creeps in…" I mumble with a grateful kiss on the side of his head.

"You didn't have to get me two things…" he says, arranging them on his lap.

"If you only knew the restraint it took to stop there."

"I can imagine." I watch him as he twists his head to one side. "And they look expensive."

"How can you tell? They could be boxes filled with shredded newspaper. You're an impressive one, but you haven't got x-ray vision. Have you? That is so dirty…"

"I can just tell."

"Are we actually having a fight about money on your birthday?"

"No!" he exclaims, with the promise of a laugh. "We should be cutting back, that's all, now you've taken some time off and I won't be bringing anything in, again, for weeks."

He pauses shaking the little box and says earnestly, "I just don't want you thinking you have to spend loads on me."

"Yes Sy. When I think of you I think shallow and demanding. Now open one bloody up! Start with the big one."

"Okay okay," he says obediently, beginning to tear at the wrapping. "This is very nice paper."

A laugh escapes me and I chuckle, "You'll be playing with the box next. I thought I was the child."

"No, it's pretty I mean."

"Maybe he is gay after all," I kiss into his neck.

"Yeah I can see how my lack of interest in style and moisturising must be confusing for you in between all the sex. A shoe box!"

"You had no idea, right?"

"Completely unaware", he lies, pulling at the cardboard lid. "And inside the shoe box we have…"

"A present brought three weeks ago and in retrospect is less than sensitive…"

"Running shoes…"

"Or trainers as some call them."

"I'm ignorant to running… Thank you, they're great," he smiles, instantly pressing my lips with his open, giving kiss.

I smile into him; he doesn't need the explanation, or proof there was a thought. The present on his lap seems as right as pork marinated in vodka, but he kisses me anyway, and pulls back with a look of such gratitude and happiness it makes me tingle.

"No but not just trainers," I persist, turning the box around to show the point, "…trainers for actual running. I know you don't, but I thought…we could."

He stares at me, an eyebrow slightly raised, with that look he gets when I've said something weird.

"You want to be a couple that runs?"

"Yeah, go with me here. I like the gym stuff, you hate it, and that's fine, being interest twins is odd and a co-dependence nightmare, and besides I want to keep you all weak and little, but I thought maybe we could try running."

"Just sometimes…" I murmur towards him, as I watch his confusion turn to a smile. "…I could help. Plus now it might help your delicate leg get its strength back, like bambi."

"My own personal trainer?"

"Exclusively personal. We could go just round the gardens at first or something, and I'll even yell encouraging instructions at you."

He bites his lip, asking guilelessly;

"Harder, faster, down on your knees?"

"In the middle of the square? You have a filthy mind Syed Masood. Eleven days without sex and everything comes back to…"

"Says the one who knows it's been eleven days without even thinking," he says under his breath.

"Don't change the subject. So, what do you think? Hate the idea?"

Inspecting the soles and laces with precision, he considers it.

"Will you let me win?"

"This is a race now is it?"

"It's always a race. I mean obviously once I'm fully fit I'll win easily…"

"Obviously."

"But in the meantime, you know, just to get my confidence up."

"I won't even pout afterwards."

"Then I can't wait," he smiles, grinning into my lips.

"I know, me either. From the losing view, I get to watch your arse. I'm the winner after all," I laugh into his kiss.

"Should have got you tiny shorts, or those looser ones that just _hang._ Tight and teasing in just the right places…" The image of the curve of his arse as he runs in youth, glorious, takes my thoughts, "…yeah, definitely need to get those."

"You mean they're not in here?" he says, shaking the second box.

"I'm an idiot."

"I'm relieved. It's a very small box…"

Throwing the waste off the side of the bed, I nudge closer to him, running my fingers recurrently along the soft of his side.

"Open it then," I say quietly, wishing it gently as he quickly does as I ask.

"Oh Christian…"

I find myself staring at him, trying to read his expression, my stomach doing an unfamiliar jumble of nervous indecision.

"Do you…?" I pause, suddenly giving an insane level of thought to whether a watch was wrong.

"I love it," he says in such a hush it's almost our secret. "It's gorgeous. Thank you."

He glances up at last from the box to my hovering face, his dark eyes low and shining in a way I suspect I've never seen.

"I love it. I love you."

And then he is kissing me, and I can feel it, what he says, what he doesn't. With the stroke of his lips, the realisation hits the thud of my heart like an obvious truth: I need this next year, and every year after.

I pull back, keeping my fingers running through the nape of his hair.

"When I'm a hundred and you're…fifty two, however old you'll be then, will you still get excited at my presents?"

"Depends what they are," he says flatly, wriggling away. "You'll have to improve each year obviously, so by then…maybe a small island?"

"Liar," I pout.

"No you're right, a mansion. A mansion will do. I don't want to be greedy."

"No, no, of course not," I tease, tickling his throat as he giggles with mirth.

"I really love it," he says quietly, stopping me simply with his hold on my face. "I'm officially spoilt."

I look at him, the cuts and harm hiding in the carefree strength of a genuine smile.

"Not even close."

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued (probably)… <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Sick days equals continuation of the story, but also possibly it not making sense. Let's see what happens! Thank you for your reviews so far, they are very much appreciated. P.S my Syed past story, Where I've Been, What I Am will be updated when my brain works again xxx **

* * *

><p>"I'm so full. Did you use everything in the flat?"<p>

Placing the tray back in the cupboard, I grin over my shoulder.

"I left out the goat's cheese and the yoghurt."

"Yeah I think that would have pushed me over the edge," he murmurs, sleepily. "Thank you for my lovely birthday breakfast…well, not that you're not making me breakfast every morning, but this especially."

His stuffed expression is waiting for me as I walk through the kitchen, a small lick of a buttered thumb merging his sweet satisfaction with, to my current state, something else entirely.

"You are more than welcome," I tell him, wandering back to the edge of the bed.

Propped up like the Prince of Sheba, he looks purely gorgeous, but with the noticeable mope on his face, uncharacteristically morose.

"I'm not moving enough for all this," he sighs. "I'm going to get fat."

I grin. The statement can only lead to an inspection and I slowly pull the sheets from him, watching his changing eyes as I expose his near bare body.

"You couldn't be mildly tubby if you tried," I say, crawling down to run my mouth along the tautness of his stomach, smiling at the quickened breath felt with the slight tensing of his muscles.

"You're just perfect," I kiss as his hand makes its way, softly scrunching through the hair of my head.

"I don't know, none birthday breakfasts are going to have to be more like muesli I think…"

"Pah. You need plenty of energy to get you back to strength," I drag the edge of my mouth along his stomach line. "Anything spare, I'll just help you burn off."

"Through running?"

I look up to see his eyebrows raised, that fake innocent expectant face that spreads my lips into a grin.

"Mmm running, exactly," I say, keeping my mouth on him and the hold of his gaze. "I can't wait to get you…_running_, again. For hours on end."

"Well if you think I should," he smiles, watching me stroke my nose up the achingly taut dip of his chest. "As my personal trainer you probably know best."

"Probably?"

I stop, pausing until he earnestly corrects;

"Sorry, definitely. You definitely know best."

"That's better," I smile, resuming my touch along the top of his chest, stroking the tiny gatherings of dark hair. "It's very important to dedicate yourself to it Syed, to fully commit. Give yourself entirely to the expert."

He sighs with the gentlest of laughs.

"Oh I plan to. For as long as he thinks is necessary."

"Yeah?" I breathe in his skin, that sticky little morning sweat that sits teasingly like tempting heat.

"Mmm," he murmurs, "in _whatever way_ he tells me to."

That ends me, any disciplined restraint gone as I find his lips, smiling, grabbing mine with the soft wildness only he can muster, loving me, nipping me, sliding through the sheets with me.

I can almost smell the edge as his hands tug at the jersey of my bottoms, stretching to reach, to pull them off, to pull me close, the sensations hum through me. There are others that run stronger though, as through them filters the feel of him heaving at his weighted leg and the tender little discomfort wince he makes.

I break away with a muttered "Don't Sy…," the warning enough for him to exhale knowingly, shuffling back with a rejected sigh.

"In normal circumstances I would recommend ending training with a shower but…," I say with an undetected groan, "…I might need to start with one. A cold one."

"Oh," he says, flushed with something close to guilt and pride. "Me saying imagine that I'm joining you would probably defeat the purpose."

"At this point, I will definitely be thinking of you."

He leans back as I force my body away, a secret smile creeping up on his lips.

"As long as it's me."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're going to be ok by yourself for a bit?"<p>

Through the misted steam of the shower and the concrete brick of the wall, I can see the roll of his eyes.

"Christian I'm capable of looking after myself," he calls almost patiently, "We've covered this."

"Yes, I remember the promise not to play with matches and the range of sarcastic very clever responses you thought of."

"I have time on my hands…" he yells, his mouth muting abruptly as he sees me walk into the room.

He glances at my towel, the only cover of my dripping body, and pulls that knowing expression that this last week has seen him perfecting.

"Good shower?"

"Yes thank you," I say with an attempt at an unaffected face. "Good…sit?"

"Yes thank you," he smiles casually, "I thought about yesterday's Loose Women."

"Did you now…I've never tried that method…"

"You've never tried any method, and you wouldn't need to now if…" he starts, that composure too easy to break.

"I'm not talking about this again," I sing, jumping in the spare room for clothes, "Can we go back to fighting about leaving you unsupervised instead?"

"I'm not eight and I'm not unsupervised. Tam'll be here won't he…"

"He still coming?" I ask, popping my head round the door.

"Yeah, think so. He'll probably bring Afia too, I think they're joined at the hip."

"Literally," I grin.

"Nice Christian, nice."

"I'm not the one who was with his wife in my brother's bed, and who, it should be noted, didn't bother changing the sheets from when said brother and his gorgeous lover had been at it the morning before."

"I think in his mind we don't have sex. Anyway, that doesn't matter, there's hardly going to be a repeat of that when I'm lying on the bed."

"At nineteen that wouldn't have stopped me," I call.

"If I'd have been on the bed?"

"Hardly. If my brother had been on the bed."

"You haven't got a brother."

"If you don't stop being awkward I'll take your presents back," I say, kissing the top of his head as I walk past the bed.

"No! You can't say that, I'm attached now. I've been inspecting the trainers during your suspiciously long shower…they are very fancy."

"Only the best for you."

"I'd be wearing them now but, you know, it'd only fit on one foot," he laments, half waggling his swollen toes.

"Poor baby," I say, stroking the top of his peaking bruised foot.

"It's alright, could have been worse."

His smile falls slightly with mine and I look at him, safe and resting, but broken, thinking of what could have been and realising how little of my mind I can let creep there.

"I could wear one of mine and put one of yours on the swollen one?" he grins, bringing me back like he always does. "I know you like it when I wear your clothes."

"Yeah that's generally my tracky top when you're cold, or my t-shirt when you're wandering around in your little boxers and nothing else."

"Odd footwear doesn't tend to turn you on? Noted."

"Well I didn't say that…"

"Least the watch fits, it's perfect."

I watch him as he plays with the metal, smiling down at the links as I do the same at his face. The image can't help but release a laugh from me, as I pass him a collected t-shirt to get dressed.

"I've never seen anyone eat breakfast-in-bed in a watch before."

"Good job I decided against putting one shoe on then," he mumbles, pulling the fabric ably over his head.

"Ha is this an odd little Syed thing I'm witnessing for the first time? Have you gone crazy?"

"Sod off," he chastises, a twitch of a grin at his lips. "Have you never put all your presents on before? We always used to. Every birthday we would put absolutely everything on that we got, even if it was like two jumpers. This one year Shabs and I convinced Tam to put three CDs down his pants. Mum went ment…"

I watch as his words end with a cloud of what I can only feel is grief flash past his eyes, and he gives this small smile as if to apologise for the weakness, to use energy to lie that he's okay.

"…well, she wasn't happy," he says wistfully, half there, half here. "She had a point, it's not overly hygienic. I think part of her was laughing."

I fail in playing along with the anecdote it seems, my expression flawed enough for him to be the one to utter the words, "It's okay you know, it doesn't have to be a big deal for me to mention her, any of them."

"I know," I attempt, moving to find his trousers, "'course it doesn't."

"I mean it's my birthday, and she's my mum. She gave birth to me, after all," he tries to laugh. "You don't have to feel awkward, we can talk about it."

"Your mum giving birth to you? I'll pass babe."

"The other day was nothing, you know," he says, ignoring me, watching thoughtfully as I place a hand under him, assisting as he wiggles into the clothes. "I meant it when I said I understood."

"Yeah I know," I say, looking into his eyes that tell me he means it, knowing in the pit of my stomach that it doesn't make it any better.

"So you're sure you're okay with me going for a bit?" I distract. "You know I wouldn't leave you on your birthday if Jane wasn't desperate."

"Go, help her. Just like I told you yesterday, and this morning, I don't mind. She looked after you when I couldn't, you should help," he says, stroking my cheek. "Besides, be nice to talk to Tam."

"Fine then, I know when I'm not wanted…" I pout, starting to stand.

"Shut up", he mutters, pulling me with the slightest effort to be finding his mouth, as I nip and caress his lips to make him smile.

* * *

><p>'I think I got away with that', I tell myself with pleasure, rushing through the late morning market to get where I need. I'm in such a rush, my mind is to such an extent somewhere else, that at first I don't even notice I'm passing the stall, don't even register her standing there.<p>

She smiles at a customer widely, as if she hasn't a concern in the world, as if she doesn't even care what day it is and hasn't even the courtesy to pretend. She knows. Even the worst mother remembers when she gave birth, has the memory engrained inside. It makes it worse. That she knows yet she stands there as if it means nothing, that he means nothing, it makes it worse. She fiddles with her apron dreamily and I can't help but will her to do something, show some sign she feels the slightest, that my beautiful Syed is at least being thought of. She laughs, seemingly happy and I hurt for him, the sound runs through me with a physical ache. She laughs, that shrill enthused laugh that says this is just another day and I hate her, she laughs and I know I have to leave before I do something I regret.

I keep on moving, brushing by the noise of others, the grumble of crashing shoulders. I breathe, making my way to the Vic, to do the small things that I can do. It's as much for me as him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Fuck it! Fuckitty shit fuck."

I throw my hands to flail through the air, staring venomously at the non-descript sponge sitting innocently in the tray. It's mocking me; I can see it in its off brown crumbs.

"It's okay," I can hear Jane say, her voice curling in that way she did when I was fourteen and having a fit about unwashed jeans, something beyond importance that others just can't see.

"No it isn't. It's completely pissing flat."

"You've got time, you can make another one. Or I will, I've done it before."

"No because then I won't have made it," I press, rubbing my hand through my hair exasperatedly, thrusting it out at the feel of fingers edged with squashed mix and flour. "It was supposed to be me."

"It's only a cake Christian. He's not five, he won't mind."

"_I _mind," I force, thrusting myself away from the overbearing oven to avoid the fight as my chest tightens. "I wanted a cake, I wanted the things you do on a birthday, they make it right. Presents, a soddin' cake, everyone gets that, so he gets it. It's my job to do that, everyone should have what they want on their birthday, he doesn't. And it's flat, the pissing cake is flat. Even the oven is against us, apparently we offend the oven. Well the oven fucking offends me!"

* * *

><p>"I just went mental over a cake didn't I?"<p>

"Maybe just a notch," she says quietly.

The legs of her chair screech along the clinical hardness of the floor and I look up to see her inching her way closer, my insanity judged to be calming enough for closer proximity. Rubbing my hand down my mouth, I sigh, suddenly acutely aware I'm in a pub kitchen, recovering from a meltdown that stemmed from baking.

"Sorry."

"Oh please, I'm your sister, like I've never seen you throw a tantrum before."

"Yeah," I say, attempting for a smile. It doesn't overly work though, as we sit there silently, me stilled, and her just watching me like the star show in an asylum.

"What's wrong Christian?"

"Nothing honestly," I tell her quickly, and it isn't really a lie. I just had an amazing morning with my most amazing man, and I have no reason to be losing it, particularly when he can give me smiles.

"Nothing?" she repeats, disbelievingly. "You two have been through hell recently, it wouldn't be normal if you weren't feeling the strain."

"Yeah I know, it's not that though. I mean I can't even think about it," I shake my head, "but it's not..."

"And Syed's alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I think so. Keeps telling me he's goin' to call the police and tell them he's being held hostage if I don't let him out soon, but other than that… He's doing great, just getting on, he seems happy."

"So there you are then."

I nod mutely, wanting to agree with the simplicity of it, to find something in the silence. Blurring as my eyes focus on the heaped pile of today's lasagnes, I can't seem to manage it.

"He cried the other night," I say quietly. "The night I brought him home from hospital. We were in bed and I couldn't see or hear it but I could feel him, I was holding him and I could tell."

"It was probably just delayed shock or something, I mean I've cried at less than a roof..."

"I know, I cry at adverts. He doesn't though, I never see him. I mean a little, sometimes…" I can't help but let my mind wander to the weeks after he first came home, when I'd catch him cuddled awake at night, or sitting quiet on the sofa, knowing he'd seen one of them, and today the ignoring stare was that bit harder to cope with. "It's rare though…" I tell her, "…and he wouldn't hide it, not really, but this was… He didn't even mention it the next day, and then I didn't because I didn't know whether I should."

"He's sad Jane. I mean happy too, but sad. Whatever happened with his mum has done something to his head. I don't know what the hell she said..."

"Then ask him, talk to him," she says, giving me a scrunched pat along my back.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"'Cos we can't talk about this stuff. We try, I try, but it's only going to end in an argument, I'll only hurt him."

"You don't know that…you're better than you think."

I laugh a little, a grateful smile sneaking out at the suggestion, continually confused how I manage to eternally love myself with arrogant swagger, but when it comes to him, doubt myself in little creeping measures. It's because I love him, I know that. Simply and irreconcilably, and it's because that I love him, when I screw up and hurt him, I actually care.

I look at her, placing my mug of tea therapy on the side slowly.

"I called her a bitch last week."

"I've probably said the same..." she murmurs, in dismissive sympathy.

"To _him_," I explain. "I called her a bitch to him. 'Queen bitch' actually, who needs subtlety."

"Ah."

"Yeah, ah. You should have seen his face Jane, he looked worse than before when I've insulted his God. Mad and heartbroken all at the same time."

"Yeah, never insult your partner's mother. I mean I never even had chance to meet Kathy, poor thing, but I knew to stay well clear. Ian spoke of her like she was a saint."

"Sy doesn't think Zainab's a saint. He's not delusional, he remembers what she's done to him, how can he forget. He just...loves her anyway. No matter what she does, how much she hurts him, he'll have this optimism about her. And I'm the arsehole that tries to destroy that optimism, who sees what pain it causes but calls her a bitch anyway, to protect him."

"I guess what he chooses to think, do, that's just his decision..."

"And what, I just have to stand back and watch? Welcome mum and dad with open arms so they can come in and do their worst? If they can ever be bothered that is. Well, _mum_. I don't know if Masood gets more points for showing absolutely no interest, or that just makes him a bigger arse – "

"He isn't Christian. I know how it seems but…even when he's pretending that he doesn't want to hear about Syed you can tell he does."

"Delightful. That warms my heart with a tingly glow."

She winces visibly and I sigh, muttering "I'm sorry okay," not wanting to get into that, to push away my sister on top of it all. "It's just hard. It's really, really hard."

"I see him missing her, waiting for her to do something, give him something, and I want more than anything for him to have that, for her to just call him to check he's okay, I do…but there's this part of me that doesn't want it, really desperately doesn't want it, that wants her to stay as far away as possible. Thing is, I think that part is getting bigger," I say, looking back at her as if for confession, as if some sort of absolution.

"I see him, I see him physically aching wanting her to come back and there is a part of me that is wishing she never does. He wants her, needs her even, and I'm there hoping that he never gets her again, that we can just be left alone. What kind of person does that make me Jane?"

"Christian…"

"It makes me that selfish prick who has something precious and wants to keep it all for himself, who finally has what he always wanted and resents, actually resents anything getting in the way. What kind of person resents his boyfriend for needing his mum? I can hear myself sometimes Jane and I'm so close to saying something to him, a million times worse than calling her a bitch. I can feel it, that poisonous midget is going to keep giving him crumbs, not too close but not too far away, and I'm going to end up saying something, doing something. And I'll be the bad guy…maybe I am…"

"You're not the bad guy Christian. I'm not sure if there is one in this…"

"Why not? Why can't there be a bad guy and a good guy, why can't it be that simple? It should be, and I know who gets each role. All Sy's ever done is try and make them happy Jane, to the point of near _destruction_. His one crime is having what, some different wiring in his brain and letting himself act on it, have a life where he feels something instead of just being dead and…"

My chest tightens from frustration to total darkness at the path of those words and I breathe, telling myself to calm, managing to look up at her with the edge of a shaken comforting smile.

"Sorry, I don't know where all this coming from. You let me gate crash your work and I'm having a fit on you. The cake was bad enough."

"Oh don't be silly, I can still look after you can't I? Not too old for that?"

"Syed says I'm not old, I'm old_er_."

"Well yes, that's very accurate."

"I don't know, maybe that's it. Today, his birthday and everything, it's just brought it up. I mean he says he's okay, he seems it, actually wants to talk about his family, his mum…it's me pulling away from it. He can't be okay though, how can he? It's his birthday, and two weeks ago he almost died, and his mum is _nowhere_ to be seen. Not one bit of that is okay. And the worst bit, the bit that really kicks you in the gut like it's all you can do not to vomit is that despite everything, despite every evil word and cold stare, there will still be this tiny part of him that is waiting for her to call him today, or just keeping half an eye on the door in case a card gets shoved under it. After it all, after yet another abandonment, another chance that she took to take that knife and twist it as far she could, he will still have that small, painful little hope that today of all days she'll remember she's his mother, that she'll care."

"She must care Christian..."

"Except I don't. I get it okay, she's proud and ignorant and where she grew up people like us are probably still locked away, pelted legally before they go burn in Hell. I get it. I also couldn't give a fucking rat's arse. He's her son, and he is beautiful, and she destroys him. She loves him, well so do I, and I have to watch what her version of it does to him and that is all I care about. I saw her in the market earlier and I swear I could have rung her neck."

"But you didn't," she says, squeezing my hand as if a reward.

"There were too many witnesses."

"You didn't because that isn't you, and you know how much any confrontation would hurt Syed."

"No I decided it'd be more helpful to come here and bake a cake."

"Which it probably was."

"It would have been if I had a cake to show for it."

Casting my eyes on the insane state of my flour drenched surroundings, I groan.

"What the hell am I even doing, what part of me thought 'Syed's birthday' and then thought sponge? Do they even have birthday cakes? He likes these sweets, these Pakistani sweet things…I can't even remember what they're called. I should be paying attention when he's saying that stuff but his mouth just shapes really cute and I get distracted. I was going to try, do one of those desserts he used to like at MQ…but then I thought that's what his mum would have made, and I didn't want to do some imitation, some shit version."

"That makes sense."

I look at her and laugh.

"Let's not pretend any of this makes any remnants of a sort of sense. I'm 38 and I've got cake mix on my fingers."

"Which he will never know about if you just get cleaned up and get yourself home."

"So he'll think I actually chose to leave him to come hang out in the pub on his birthday, brilliant. No, I'll salvage something. I can sort it."

I stand up, staring face to face with the dishevelled brown mess abandoned on the counter.

"I just need inspiration. Get me a vodka tonic will you babe?"


	4. Chapter 4

I creak the door open with one arm wrapped firmly around the curve, and smile at the dark ruffles of hair peeking out from above the sofa. He's nodding, listening silently to his iPod, maybe something in a language I don't understand, possibly from an era that makes me feel eighty, but the result is definitely gorgeous. The sight of it makes me happy, actually happy, and despite it all, that feeling remains. He thinks he hasn't rhythm, but whatever he has, it's a move that still makes my stomach flip, and I consider standing undetected to watch the subtle show. Glancing down at my right arm, I decide I already look psychotic enough, and tentatively side step my way to spring casually in front of him.

Intently, I watch as he registers my presence, the way his big eyes widen and brow slowly creases in bemused confusion. As the insanity fears threaten to fluster inside of me, I see a silent smile start to show, sneaking to twitching lips that spread to light up his face.

He grins at me, leisurely pulling one ear phone out and then the other.

"Hello."

I smile internally at the elongated stretch of his voice, the little low gravel that goes with the expectant stare that sits under his lashes. I opt for casual.

"Hi."

He nods pointedly to my hands, attempting to suppress the smile.

"What have you got there then?"

"A cake."

"A cake?" he repeats, eye brows finding their crease again.

"Well…" I weigh up, "It's my own version. I thought about, you know, making the sponge, but I decided that was a bit conservative, didn't really have a flare to it…"

"Oh you've got to have the flare."

"Exactly. I knew you'd agree. So I decided to ignore the shit _cake_ part of the cake, and just go for…this."

I tip the angle nonchalantly, watching him peer inquisitively into the dark sweet swirled round in the glass. His lip creases, and he asks with serious interest;

"What do you call it?"

"Chocolate in a bowl."

He beams, a small laugh escaping that leads my own head to fall in a moment of mirth. Reaching his hand out, I take it to be half pulled towards him, squashing myself into the cushion of the sofa and his body.

"Okay, clearly there was meant to be sponge attached to it…" I murmur, threading one arm around the soft of his shuffling back.

"There was?" he asks, stroking one hand along the side of my cheek, as he delves the thumb of the other into the chocolate mess. "You mean that whole thing just now was a lie? I'm shocked Christian. Very –" and he licks the sweet stickiness off the edge of skin "Shocked."

"It wasn't my fault, I'm just enthusiastic. Jane said I was whipping it too hard."

"She did?"

"Yeah, my biceps were too muscly and powerful. Essentially, I'm too manly to bake."

His smile breaks with the burst of a laugh, spilling loudly from his curled lips.

"Aww," he fusses, shaking mirth away to produce earnest sympathy, "poor thing."

"I know, right."

"Well," he says, low, "I happen to think they're just right. Muscles, hands…all perfect in fact."

I smile as I feel the soft touch of his mouth on the curve of my arm.

"And guess what?"

"What?"

"Chocolate in a bowl…" he murmurs into my skin, before halting to lift his head back up to find my eyes, "or I think, chocolate butter cream might be its other name?"

"To the less artistic…"

"Yep, well, when it comes to cakes…that was always my _favourite_ part."

"I knew it! 'Cos it's got the most chocolate in it, right?"

"Exactly. When you make a chocolate cake, the sponge never gets enough cocoa. In the colour yes, but not like in taste, it's not like chocolate. The butter cream on the other hand…"

I stare as he dips a finger into the sticky sweet darkness and sucks gently at the welcomed taste.

"…has the perfect amount. Well this does."

"I love you," he murmurs, sliding his hand to scrunch the back of my head, his lips finding mine to nip a slow, giving kiss. "…'cos you bring me chocolate."

He grins, licking the trace on his lips.

I growl in faux outrage, grabbing the offending bowl to banish it to the table, laughing cries of protest almost silenced by the crush of my mouth. They soften to little moans, him fight-less as a calmed body underneath, mouth taking and stroking with open lips.

My fingertips run down the taught scrunch of his tee, sliding down to find the buckle of his belt. His hand lowers to mirror mine and I release a small groan at the tug of my zip.

"Sy, don't…"

He ignores me, building his assault with the gentle lick of his tongue and whisper in my ear;

"Don't tell me you're still being weird about this."

"It's not weird."

"It is," he murmurs, "and you really need to get over it…"

"I do not need any encouragement, it's taking enough effort to only think with my brain."

"Then don't," he says, cupping his hand around my denim teased need. "Think with something else."

"Syed…"

He sighs, moving himself back up.

"Are you seriously going to do this for six weeks? 'Cos I winced once and said I'd need a cushion or something?"

"I am not having you shift around just so you can...give back or something. I'm trying out selfless and considerate, you should be happy."

He looks at me, eyes quiet.

"Which bit about not being together is supposed to make me happy?"

"We are, just not like that, now…" I say, stroking my hand to pull him back close, kissing into his waves. "You'll be all better soon."

"That's it though? I mean, there's nothing else?"

My lips pause on his hair.

"Course not."

"And there's nothing I can say or do…"

His hand moves back down between us.

"No. Now behave or I'll abandon you to Loose Women."

"It's not on today," he informs me, proudly. "It's a Saturday."

"I taped it."

"No! I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Well not too good," I murmur down his wriggling throat. "Now lay back and tell me again how sexy my hands are."

* * *

><p>His head rests on the groove of my chest and I tighten the wrap of my arms. Resting beneath the familiar warmth of his scrunched hair and curled smile, I can almost tell myself this is it. In our heat, his smell, the ordinariness of half clothes and skin, late morning is a lifetime ago and the past two weeks of fears are gone; that those true, those yet to come, those dreamt up in the recess of the cruelty of my mind are nothing, and all there is is this. Almost.<p>

"Is this what I get for my dinner?"

His voice is ravelled with contentment and he nudges sleepily to the abandoned bowl.

"Is it what you want for your dinner?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"I thought I'd go crazy and try something savoury, chicken or something," I murmur. "We don't eat enough chicken. It feels wrong not taking you out on your birthday though…"

"We can do it next month, or twice for yours. Somewhere nice, when I can sit down without creating a fire hazard. Besides," he says, tracing his fingers up the line of my chest. "I like it when you cook for me. Dinner at home, it's one of my favourite things."

I feel his mouth stretch and the sound of a yawn muffles into my skin.

"You tired, baby?"

"A bit. In retrospect, I don't think I'm up to an hour with Afia."

"That's bad isn't it?" he says as I fail to hide a laugh. "I mean it was great to see Tam but... I'm a terrible brother-in-law."

"I'd willingly lock Ian in a porter loo."

"Well that doesn't count. Jane's leaving him because he made her miserable, Tam's a happy newly-wed."

I kiss the ruffled waves of his head.

"I'd have locked Ian in a porter loo when he was making her happy…those three days back in 2008. You can't pick your in-laws…"

"Yeah…"

"You can, however," I quickly add to the silence, "pick your birthday dinner…so think on that."

"I will do that, spoiler."

He pauses, his breathing halting slightly as he asks almost casually;

"Did you see anything on the mat downstairs earlier?"

"Didn't really notice," I say, picturing its emptiness. "Busy transporting chocolate… I don't think there was anything…not a pizza flyer to escape my cooking, so don't get any ideas," I smile down at him, listening as he gives a slight laugh, following my encouraging own.

"I am quite tired, you know. I might sleep for a bit," he says quietly, pressing a kiss into my chest, "an old man nap on the sofa…if you want to stay too?"

I press my hand into the dip of his back and cuddle my arms tight.

"I can do that."

* * *

><p><strong>Probably one more to go... Thank you for the reviews so far, they are lovely and definitely encourage finishing! <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Never start a multi-fic when you have excessive time on your hands… Sorry for the delay, but as promised to I Think You're Beautiful, I did return to this before Syed turned 27. I did, however, not manage to finish it – so you'll have to wait for one more chapter for that (if indeed, anyone is still reading and wants one). Enjoy – and thanks for all lovely reviews! **

* * *

><p>"It's the way she stretches her voice, it makes everything a total effffort."<p>

"Christian…" he disciplines, with the side of his lip curling to do no anything but discourage.

"It's that brilliant teenage thing where everyfink is a total nightmare," I continue as he suppresses a laugh, stretching his back languidly to keep the balance of his propped up foot.

"Even sentences are too much to deal with, out to get you with their rules and eugh God demands. Shit I don't like this joke…I sound eighty."

"And nothing like her. Your Asian princess doesn't go to the local comp'. There's definitely no 'fink in her vocabulary."

"It's her earrings then. How much they look like giant coloured milk buttons."

"Stop it," he grins, flicking a half remaining potato across to my plate.

"Oi don't flick your potato at me! You asked me why you found Afia so annoying and I came up with a list of possible reasons. I was being helpful."

"You found eight ways that hadn't even crossed my mind. Now I won't even be able to look at her ears."

"He'll have to divorce her then."

"Don't, that isn't even funny. If that house needs anything it's one happy marriage," he says, shaking his head wistfully. "By Masood logic that might as well be the one that no one knows about."

"If a tree falls in a forest…" I murmur, reaching to the window sill for the matches and re-lighting the candles, frowning at the congealed wax ebbing down.

"Wouldn't the tree falling be divorce? I don't think even we could manage a secret wedding and a secret divorce."

"Fine, the tree standing is a happy marriage. If a tree stands really nicely and no one's around to hear it not fall… I was being philosophical there. You just destroyed that."

He smiles, remorsefully.

"Sorry. I don't even dislike her, really. I mean she's not selfish, or bitchy, or superficial…"

I stretch to clear the plates.

"Are we describing anyone in particular here?"

"No, just…hypothetical women…"

"Ah those hypothetical women, gorgeous they are. I could ravish one."

"I don't know," his thoughts travel as I stand to move. "It's just weird that he's married. It was always just Tam. Now it's Tam…and Afia."

"And she's hard to ignore."

"Ha yeah."

"He probably thinks the same about me."

"Who could possibly want to ignore you?"

He grins up at me, frivolity lighting his face. I must let the dark that sits at the back of my mind filter through the laughter though, his voice, to my inner chastisement, returning lower as if it's he that need comfort me;

"Well, anyone with any sense," he adds, reaching up for my hand to stroke his thumb slowly on my palm. "Besides, you've got company," he smiles, the hue of his eyes shadowing with the underlying sadness of it. "Not so bad together, right?"

I can pretend that there's no truth in the words but I know from the shiver that threatens to run through me, despite my ache for him, I am warmer from him being out in the cold. It's a thought that can't be focused on; even my trained mind would feel the guilt of that.

"Not what you've been saying for the last two weeks if the moaning's been anything to go by," I say, stumbling along my best grin. "You ordered pizza three times last week just so you could talk to someone other than me."

"I like pizza. We had a twelve minute shut-in conversation about the healing power of cheese if you recall, ending with you saying I could have anything that I fancied."

"As long as what you fancied was the food and not the boy delivering it. I was beginning to worry…"

"Mmm" he ponders, exhaling a little consideration noise that traps my attention. "Rick is pretty charming…"

I huff.

"Is he now?"

"Witty. Made a really good joke about people who eat pineapple on their pizza."

"I must have missed that one..."

"Young too, you like that. Do you see how quick he gets from the street door to the flat? And carrying stuff too… He must be very fit."

My voice falls flat;

"It's cardboard with dough in it Syed. It's hardly a professional weight set."

"Musical too, very creative. As soon as Budger – that's his friend – can get a drum kit he's going to get his band back together…if his Nan will let them use the garage."

I slip out a grin as the side of his lips curl.

"Sod."

"You think I've got a thing for nineteen year olds now?" he laughs. "Deflecting your own cradle robbing fantasies onto me…very bad Christian, very bad."

"Twenty-six is quite enough thank you. Clearly I'm filthy but if your toy-boy's younger brother is nineteen, I take that as a sign you've gone far enough."

I pause confused suddenly, looking around the flat.

"Where's his card by the way?"

"What?"

"Tam's card, I never saw it."

"Oh he didn't get me one."

He must notice the expression on my face, visibly fallen over the absence of something as discard-able as a card, as he translates;

"We're brothers. We do well to remember each other's birthdays. I think one year I wrote a message on a napkin."

I laugh, relieved, turning finally to the kitchen with the food scraped plates.

"Appalling."

"He got me a present though, I think that's a first. Well, since mum used to buy it and tell him what he got me..."

"Where? I didn't see."

"I stuck it on the DVD rack. I got…" he mulls the words, visibly "…the entire back catalogue of Torchwood."

I frown.

"Is that sci fi?"

"Gay sci fi. With a Captain."

I lunge forward to catch the china, my ability to grip seemingly failing as I laugh hysterically.

"Did your brother buy us porn?"

"No! Eugh. It's a programme, it's an actual thing. He's like Doctor Who but gay, or bi, or something. Though Tam did mention that he thought the new Doctor was bi and he started to ramble on how that wasn't applicable to us as we're men who just like men and I sort of wanted to die at that point, as he did, so I changed the topic to Stargate or something."

"Amazing. That's the best thing I've heard all week," I shake my head, dripping the suds over the plates. "Let's watch it tonight."

"Really?" His voice falls to silk and I turn to see the creep of his smile.

"I had some plans for later but they didn't so much involve the television."

"Cludo?" I cough, turning back to the sink. "Scrabble? Twister…I'd definitely win in your current state."

"You're getting closer…"

"Jenga?"

"Cold again. You're not even trying now. Something that goes with this music…what is it? Don't I call this your 'Get Me Into Bed' playlist…"

"I need a playlist for that now?"

"No, I'm feeling pretty easy actually."

"Hussy."

There's a screech of chair legs and the thud of a boot and I turn to watch him gently shuffle and hop his way towards me, threading his arm around my back in a move I know is for more than balance.

"Come be with me, the dishes can wait."

"The dauphinoise stick like a sod…"

"They were gorgeous though, all of it. Thank you."

He tugs my shirt and I lower my head for his lips, the heat of his mouth stroking mine in a light, slow kiss. He murmurs into me;

"Leave them, I'll do them in the morning."

"On a stool, getting water all over the tiles and your thighs?"

"Yes."

I begin to turn, my back sliding for him to face.

"Or I could do them now."

"Or you could not," he instructs, dampening his hand as he stretches his past to repossess mine. "You could think about how much you've spoilt your very lucky lover today and how there's just one more, big thing, this birthday boy wants."

I breathe, swallowing.

"And what's that?"

"You."


	6. Chapter 6

**For Changehenge (what a fitting story! It's like I planned it...) Two days early but the 19****th**** century laptop crashed so I already had to re-write it once and I wasn't risking that again. WIBWIA would have been a more fitting present, but I did try and shamelessly insert some angst here (and a reference to a better story). **

**The final chapter, sorry it took a while. Thank you everybody for your lovely lovely reviews, it's great to hear what you think. I hope you like xxx **

* * *

><p>"Me? Is the birthday excitement taking your senses Sy?" I deflect shamelessly, turning to busy myself with the invisible stains on the dinner pots. "You've got me, we're talking right now."<p>

"I wasn't exactly thinking of talking," he murmurs, pressing a kiss onto the broad of my back.

I shiver slightly, the warmth of his hands and muffled lips as ruthless as the continued slow silk of his voice;

"Do you remember Brighton?" he whispers. "Wanting me on the beach. The way you kissed my neck in the dark, slid your hand down me, knowing you were driving me so crazy I was close to letting you do anything right there on the pebbles. Racing to the hotel? I remember."

"Even if it was essentially a gay brothel, without the profit," I cough. "Sorry again about that."

He laughs gently, stroking his hand along my belt.

"I didn't mind really, I wasn't thinking about anyone else. Just us, the beach air, and our room. In fact…I was thinking, maybe we could re-enact that tonight?"

"Beach air?"

I take a re-washed plate out the sink.

"I can give you chip fat and batter aroma."

"I was thinking more of the room bit. Though I think the roof sized bump to my head may have left things a little fuzzy. Maybe you could remind me…"

I feel his fingers stroke the leather and the give as it loosens, his pleasured familiar rub and the pop as my button comes undone.

"Sy don't, just don't okay..."

"No! No Christian it is not okay!"

He sighs quickly, the startling fire in his voice flattening.

"I'm done alright, I'm done."

Sense tells me that the words don't mean the permanence they suggest, but it doesn't stop the heat flushing up my neck or my turn to check the expression of his face. It's angry, but I know with him in the darkness that sits behind wide eyes there's only hurt.

I breathe tentatively;

"You're done?"

"I'm done trying. I'm done trying and having whatever I do thrown back in my face, like I'm no one, like you don't even care. When you can bear having me anywhere near you again, you just let me know."

He turns abruptly with a wobble, the thud of his boot scraping the floor.

"Sy, baby, it isn't like that," I urge, putting a hand out gently to hold his waist as he pulls away. "You're injured."

"I had noticed Christian."

"Which is why we should wait until you're healed – so that's what we'll do."

He exhales with what sounds like a laugh, but from the incredulity marking his face I suspect he isn't finding this funny.

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Right," he says matter of factly, leaning with a deceivingly calm look against the pillar.

"Out of interest, do I get a say in this?"

He's not calm.

"Are you planning on having a conversation with me at any point about when I can resume my own sex life or am I supposed to wait for you to give me some sort of sign?"

I sigh with borderline melodrama (if he wants to play, I'll show him how it's done) tutting my voice flatly;

"I would have thought the bloody big boot would have been a clue."

"So we're waiting for total removal then? Well thanks for letting me know, I'll get out the calendar and count down the days until I'm allowed to touch my own partner again."

"I'm sorry but am I actually being accused of being unreasonable here for giving a shit that one of your limbs has a massive break in it? 'He went without sex for weeks whilst his boyfriend's leg healed. What an arsehole."

"It isn't as simple as that and you know it. You're deciding, you're deciding what's best. If I wanted to be controlled I'd have stayed at home with my mother."

To him that probably isn't an insult but it sends my voice to a new pitch, my hands flailing in faux defeat;

"Okay, fine! You wanna know? I haven't exactly felt like it! I've had other things on, a rampant sex machine for your disposal I am not."

He looks at me like I've punched him in the soft skin of his gut but I'm here now and I continue regardless.

"You know you're not exactly mister nimble at the moment, I'm doing everything. I cook, I clean, I'm a one man care service. And clearly I'm not perfect at that, I'm not fulfilling my common-law husband duties. I'm shit okay. Happy?"

I watch him swallow, sadly.

"Ecstatic."

I sigh, dragging my hand slowly down the lines of my face.

He stands there, quiet, and I reach a remorseful arm out to touch, stroke my fingers along his willing palm.

"I didn't mean that Sy, I didn't mean that at all."

"No, I get it, it's a lot. I've tried to take the load off you, do things for myself...you never let me."

"I like doing it. I like cooking you breakfast, putting the plastic bag on your foot in the shower, holding you so you don't slip on the tiles. I like it."

I breathe as I watch the side of his lip curl slightly.

"Well it's a good job it isn't the other way round, I'd probably drop you. I would though you know, don't you, take care of you...if you ever needed it."

"You already have, if you remember – I do. Better, for longer, and before you were even in love with me."

He looks at me.

"I think we both know there was barely ever a time when I wasn't at least on my way to being irreversibly in love with you."

* * *

><p>"Is it me?" he asks quietly, lashes looking up sadly from where he rests himself on the sofa.<p>

He must mistake my guilty expression for one of confusion as he adds painfully;

"You say I'm not getting podgy...Is it the invalid thing? Not about taking care of me, but how you think of me. I know the jogging bottoms aren't exactly sexy..."

I look at him, unrivalled gorgeousness in formal shirt and boot size grey joggers.

"You could never not look sexy."

"But something's going on..."

I exhale, turning frustrated. Masoods are like dogs-with-bones, and happening to have the cutest, nicest one doesn't always help.

"Why are we even still talking about this?"

"I'd say you just weren't in the mood what with everything" he continues, as if to himself, "but if the extra time you've been taking in the shower means anything, and the fact you come out considerably more relaxed than when you go in, I can only think you're currently finding your hand sexier than me."

"That's crap."

"Is it? We've established that you've not adopted the sex drive of a sloth…"

"A sloth?"

"So if it's not you, it's pretty obvious it can only be me. You're just too polite to say anything."

"Now you know you're talking crap because I'm never polite. I'm friendly, I do friendly – when it comes to tact I'm at best a gentle arse."

"Fine," he says quickly, his tone shifting with his gaze to stare up at me. "Now you come to mention it, it's not polite. I take that back. It's incredibly arse like actually. And superficial whilst we're at it."

"I'm lost."

"That ever since I've become…_less agile_, your interest in me has plummeted."

"Sy, that just isn't true. I would want you whether you were a gymnast or had all four limbs in plaster."

His eyes soften at the sentiment and gently, he holds a hand out.

"Then come here. Kiss me."

He murmurs; "Please."

I hover before my head shakes, slowly.

"I can't."

"Fine! As it's clearly the only company I'm going to get tonight, or any night for the foreseeable future, I will take my running shoes, my congealed chocolate, and my watch, and we will go and live happily in our bed thank you."

I watch him drag himself off the seat with a stumble, pre-emptively waving away my attempts to assist as he begins to hop his way across the room.

"Trainers."

"What?"

He pauses, his brows scrunching.

"You'll take your trainers, not your running shoes. You're not Daley Thomson."

"I don't know who that is, and shut up! Whatever you want to call them, I'll take them. Those and my other gifts and I will go and sit with those on our bed, because apparently this is what people do. They buy presents and they don't have sex. You're like my sugar daddy now, I hope you're happy."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm being ridiculous, I'm being ridiculous? I'm not the one who's banned us from having sex."

"We are having sex! I hate to break it to you because it ruins this whole thing you've got going on but we are in fact having sex. I'm glad it meant so much to you, but we did, about five hours ago."

"That wasn't sex."

"It wasn't crocheting."

"It was…well clearly it's sex, but it's not sex, is it?"

"What?"

"That isn't what I call having sex with my boyfriend. It was an orgasm Christian, a…happy ending."

"I'd have called it more than happy…"

I hear myself huff, priorities as usual in order.

"Fine, it was amazing, earth shaking, best a man could have. You're the King, the master, no one uses their hands like you. That doesn't actually change _anything_. If I wanted that I'd be down the clubs…just like if you still wanted it, you'd be there too."

He breathes, his voice lowering;

"I don't want sex, Christian. I want you. Literally, emotionally…and right now, you're nowhere near me."

"I am."

"No you're not. I'm allowed to touch you, just about, but nothing more. You're keen enough to go down on me or whatever, but you won't make love to me."

"Because you have a broken leg Syed."

"It's more than that and you know it. It's like you're afraid to get close to me, really be close to me or something, to let me close to you. Maybe I'm crossing a masculinity line here, hilariously playing the needy 1950s house-wife card, maybe being a shut-in has lost me my senses, I don't know, I... Except I don't think I am, and I don't really care. I care about you, being with you, us. And we're not. We're just not."

"You said yourself I was keen enough earlier, just turn your head and look to the sofa if you need a reminder."

"Yeah you'll do anything that's fun, gets the job done, but nothing that lets me near you. If you feel this distance that you've set disappearing or any sort of intimacy, anything from me - like on the bed earlier - you can't get away fast enough. It's been weeks and you haven't done anything that you wouldn't be like with some random you picked up. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"That isn't fair. There isn't one thing I do that makes you feel like a random pick up."

"How would you know? You don't let us talk about it. Just because you cuddle me after or say something sweet as you reject me doesn't make it better."

He sighs, glancing at the floor.

"We joke, or whatever, but this is the first time we've really spoken about it at all."

"It's going so well I wish we'd done it sooner."

"Have I done something?"

"What, no, of course not."

"Are you okay? 'Cos this month didn't exactly start well and you're allowed to feel that."

"Of course I felt it!"

He startles at the raise of my voice, and I add quietly, "Feel it." I look at him, with a whisper. "I can still see you lying there. I close my eyes and you're barely breathing."

His body leans quickly to mine, his eyes wide, kneading his hand tenderly on the strain of my neck.

"Darlin'..."

"It's not just that, it's..."

"What? What is it Christian?"

"I don't know Sy, I don't know. I wish I did but I don't. I want you, I have never wanted to be closer to you, but it's like I want it too much, so I can't. I know that makes no sense, I don't get it myself. The past couple of weeks have been...they've brought up... I'm just trying to deal with it the best I can and as usual I am fucking it up..."

"So _talk to me_, let me help. You're allowed to talk to me."

"I know, course I do. And we have. There isn't always something to say though. Sometimes you just…there aren't even any words, and the one's you think are wrong."

"Well maybe that's it."

I mumble;

"That I do better not speaking. You've offered me that idea in previous arguments."

"That _sometimes_, just sometimes, words aren't best. Sometimes you need something else."

He strokes the soft strength of his hand along my face "...at least until you can say it out loud. And it might be even scarier, it might make you feel something or say something that you couldn't even manage with words, and it gets you closer…and that's scary, really scary. I remember. But it's good too," he whispers, "...really really good."

His lips touch mine and open, gently, the tender warmth starting to nip hard placed defences away. He murmurs to my mouth;

"Because I love you, and I miss you…and I want to show you, I want you to let me show you. And I want you to show me. Please. I need that, I know you do too."

His fingers curl undone top buttons and he tugs down the ruck of my shirt, placing a kiss slowly on exposed shoulder skin.

"I'm here," he breathes into me. "No matter what, I'm here. Let me be close."

I have him, my hand scrunched in the ruffle of dark waves, my mouth widened to take him in, arms holding, wrapping, tracing the touch of hair flecked skin. His lips are heat, they always were, his lathes and moans the same wordless caress. I take him close. The sheets, the night air, the remnants of scented drifting flames are weight enough, almost a rival, if they were not here to wrap him for me.

I can taste him, and despite knowing the better sense of adult words, with the comfort of his warming skin and the flicks and moves of loving want, I just need this. There's a frustration in the regression of using my body to attempt to heal something, to use his to give him a part of what he's craving, and in truth, what I'm needing. I can taste him though, and with the heat of his straining lips and hold of my skin wrapped in his, I'm convinced this is right. I am without sense but secure in the knowledge nothing has ever got better from him not being with me.


End file.
